


Glass

by seasalticecream32



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5777374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur comes back from battle badly wounded. Merlin heals him, but things don't go as planned. Arthur has to salvage what he's broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm captainmerlin32 on tumblr. :) Come say hi!
> 
> Also, this was inspired by the song "5AM" by Amber Run.
> 
> **This was basically just an excuse to write sad sex.

 

Arthur knows, when he crawls into his bed, practically dripping blood from the wound in his side, that Merlin will be waiting for him in the corner.

His manservant tries to pretend he isn't bothered. He even offers a tremulous smile, the shift of his face silver-blue like it's catching the moon.

But when Merlin moves across the room, careful and gentle, his boots already off so that his feet pad across the cool floor, it is with wide eyes. Every time, wide eyes, red-bitten lips. Arthur could see, from his hazy vision, the slight tremor in Merlin's hands, every single time. He doesn't move to cover his wounds or speak, too certain the sound from his mouth would be sarcastic or biting and Arthur simply doesn't have the strength to drive Merlin away.

So he waits, his body tense and his bandages sticking and his skin still covered in grime. He waits for Merlin's fingers to ghost over his ribs and lift the soiled white wrappings. He waits for Merlin to lean forward and squint at the new wound, to try to angle his face away so that Arthur can't see the glow of gold from his eyes.

But Merlin can't hide the warm shine magic over Arthur's skin or the tingle of sensation on the edge his injuries. Arthur breathes in and hides it in a cough, which is a mistake because Merlin is watching and listening carefully. Merlin jumps, reaches over and places his hand flat against Arthur's check.

“Your heart is racing,” Merlin says, careful. Blank. His teeth are worrying his lips again. Arthur tries to calm his breath and tamp down the furious thump of his heart against his chest, but Merlin only furrows his brows and leans over. “Are you having any trouble breathing?”

Arthur nearly growls and shakes his head but his vision is swimming and he knows he got knocked on the head probably a few times more than healthy. He gathers up his voice and forces it to boom out. “No.”

“Right.” Merlin leanes over Arthur's abdomen, regardless, and presses his ear against the rough tangle of shirt knots. The knights had tied them when they'd been afraid and hadn't seen where all the blood was coming from. Now Merlin sits, his head leaning against Arthur for a full minute and his eyes closed. “I can hear your breathing—heavier than usual.”

“Your hair is all over the place.” Arthur bites back the excuse that bubbles up, immediate to his mind, that Merlin's hair tickles, and tries to think of another. He's dangerously close to the surface, can feel all his truths ready to spill right from his lips, but Merlin seems to satisfy himself with leaning his head against Arthur's wounds without Arthur's excuses. Arthur finds he can breath easier when Merlin lifts and he wonders if that's why Merlin closes his eyes when he knows Arthur will see them.

Arthur knows, like he always does, that somehow Merlin is piecing him together. Merlin moves to Arthur's head and runs his hands through Arthur's golden hair and he murmurs, under his breath, and Arthur sees lights flash gold above him and he knows that Merlin knows he knows.

It doesn't matter, they'll never talk about it.

They are, together, as fragile as Arthur is now. They are as mortal and finite as Arthur's thin life, flickering like a candle flame under Merlin's outstretched hand. Burning, climbing, but finite.

Merlin finishes, and Arthur's head doesn't feel so fuzzy any more. It feels light, like he's found a second wind, like the bumps in his head may have always been fewer than he thought. But Arthur knows what a sword pommel to the side of the skull feels like, and he remembers clearly the three distinct hits.

But Merlin's moving on already and Arthur only sighs, because this is the part he's been waiting for.

Merlin's fingers are just as gentle as ever, and Arthur truly relishes in it. There's not a single thing that would ever make Arthur admit it, but this would be his undoing for the rest of his limited days.

Merlin's lips are soft, nearly ghosts against his forehead, the touch as light as the silver moonlight that shines across Merlin's skin. Arthur's eyes flick to Merlin's, to the blue, and he sees them the same color they always are- the color of Merlin when he is honest, the color when he isn't afraid or hiding.

Arthur loves the blue in Merlin, but he also loves the gold and he wishes he could find the words to tell him but they always catch in his throat. When Merlin stretches, long limbs hovering over Arthur's, thin and strong and poised, like a question, over every inch of him.

“Well, get on with it. What are you waiting for?” And Arthur's voice is shaky and his eyes won't blink, won't look away from Merlin's face. “An invitation?'

“Exactly that, yeah,” Merlin grins, his lips lopsided, his teeth gleaming white. “You are compromised, after all.”

“Not hardly. Now, get here and make me feel better before you combust,” Arthur leans up. His back flares with pain, the wounds only partially healed by Merlin's secrets, and Arthur hisses just a bit under his breath.

Merlin's kisses are infuriating. Featherlight, against Arthur's jaw, down his neckline. Merlin barely touches him, except with his mouth, too gentle and too clean. Arthur can feel each careful line of Merlin's body arched over him, the absence of pressure its own sensation. He can feel something warmer than Merlin's lips, closer than either of them could ever be, seeping into his limbs and he knows Merlin's magic isn't done with him.

“One day, you'll crack and splinter and fall apart in my hands,” Merlin sighs, and Arthur can feel wetness at his shoulder. Merlin doesn't bother trying to wipe the tear away. Arthur no longer tries to tell Merlin what he can and can't feel. Merlin cries, and Arthur knows that those tears are as precious as any other part of Merlin. He'll never say it. So he says nothing. Merlin's lips press harder at his clavicle, his teeth nipping lightly against the ridge of bone.

Merlin has a desperation to him, to the way his hands, finally moving from where they'd perched him up, smooth down, clumsy and soft over Arthur's sides. He unties the shirts around Arthur's waist, splays his fingers out over Arthur's muscle and blood, and runs a thumb over Arthur's hip. Arthur needs to move but doesn't yet.

He lets Merlin have a few more moments, because this has always been so important to Merlin.

He knows the warm-melt feel in his muscles is Merlin checking for missed wounds- missed things to heal, missed traumas to soothe. But the magic quickens Arthur's blood and makes his skin feel on fire and he can barely hold his squirming.

“Merlin, do you have a point to all of this or are you trying to depress me?” Arthur's breath hitches when Merlin's lips latch onto his nipple, mouth warm and tongue laying flat against the hardened nub. Merlin hums, the sensation vibrating through Arthur. He sucks in a deep breath and thins his lips. “Are you just feeling poetic?”

Merlin pulls back and looks at him, a bit of a smile at his lips, but it's sad. Merlin's smiles are always sad these days and Arthur's learned the nuances of Merlin's sadness. So when Merlin finally settles on top of Arthur, long and lanky body covering Arthur shoulder's to toes, he already knows what Merlin's going to say. “I wish you'd be more careful, realize you're not invincible. You're not made of steel, like a sword, or a shield.”

“I'm a King, Merlin. If I don't lead my men into battle then they'll think--”

Merlin cuts him off with a kiss, one unlike their touches so far. This one is hard, Merlin's lips crashing into his, his hand snaking up to press Arthur closer, fingers buried in his hair. Merlin's eyes are open and staring down Arthur like he's trying to impart some message to him.

By the time Merlin pulls away they're both panting, and there's an uncomfortable pressure pressing into Arthur's thigh. He does squirm this time, trying to wiggle comfortable, trying to move to the right spot for the right friction. “So, on again, off again tonight?”

“I want you to take me seriously. You have to be careful, Arthur.”

Arthur stops squirming to really look at Merlin's face, to take in the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hair stuck up in all directions. “I will. Don't worry, Merlin, I'll be _**fine**_.”

Merlin growls then, leans back, straddling Arthur's hips. He pulls off his shirt, and Arthur is struck by the broad expanse of his shoulders, the flex of muscle on his arm as he yanks the shirt over his head. Arthur doesn't have much time too admire the all-too-rarely seen cut of Merlin's body, because Merlin is shifting so he can pull down Arthur's pants, and he gets frustrated with the ties and Arthur watches as Merlin's eyes glow without even an attempt to hide them.

Arthur's naked and healed and he feels more than a little glorious. Magic has always been like a drug in these encounters, filling him, stitching him back together, strengthening him. But he's not sure he's ready to deal with what Merlin just did.

Merlin's not stopping anyway. He's kissing and pushing and grinding into Arthur, and Arthur's finds he's not the only one the spell made naked.

Merlin is hot and hard and fast, his kisses pressing bruises down the side of Arthur's neck. The bruises heal, but Arthur can still feel the outline of them burning like fire. Merlin's grip is hard as he pulls Arthur's head back to look at him. Arthur gasps at the golden glow, at the cool slide of oil over his cock as Merlin stuffs his hand between them and pulls, not tight enough to hurt but not gentle any more either. Merlin's always had long fingers and they wrap easily around the both of them. There's barely enough room for Merlin's hand to pump, up and down, sliding slick and easy. Arthur's hips jerk of their own accord, his head falling against his pillow.

Merlinisn't slow or sweet, his eyes still glowing gold. Arthur can feel the magic washing over him, can feel it like caresses. Merlin ducks his head down, bowing his back for reach, and presses a tongue against the tight nub of Arthur's nipple, flicking his tongue over it and slowing the rhythm of his hands, gentling the wash of his magic. Arthur gasps as Merlin's hand slides off, magic encasing them both. Merlin's oil slicked palm slides up Arthur's chest, fingernails digging into his skin just enough to leave a trail of pink.

“Do you want me to stop?” Merlin's voice was quiet, his gaze intense. “I will.”

“No,” is all Arthur manages to gasp out before Merlin's kissing him again.

They move together, the magic stuttering out as they become more sporadic and less controlled. There's a wetness on Arthur's cheek again, but he's no longer being still. He cups Merlin's head in both hands, pulls him close and wipes the tears away with both thumbs, confusion and wonder breaking through the sensation of Merlin against him, of their hips moving together, of Merlin's nails digging into Arthur's back, of one hand gripping tight to his shoulder as if Merlin is holding on for life.

Merlin kisses him again, broken with gasps and hissed names through teeth.

Arthur can feel Merlin tensing. He lets go of Merlin's head, watches dark hair fall back as Merlin's eyes scrunch closed, his mouth falling open in a low moan.

It's all over, but Arthur doesn't feel like he usually does.

Usually this is when he pulls Merlin in, kisses him one last time, and Merlin goes off to clean them up. Arthur's almost always asleep before he gets back, sated and healing and worn from his battle. This time he's awake and he's worried.

Especially because Merlin tenses, his eyes open and staring after he's done. He breathes in deep through his nose, his nostrils flaring and his chest heaving and Arthur knows that this time he's messed up.

But he doesn't know how and he doesn't know why.

Merlin doesn't even look at him again as he gets up, back in knots and hands clenched at his sides.

He's reminded that clumsy, oafish Merlin can be more graceful than their most trained knights. Merlin swings a leg over Arthur, waves a hand and dresses them both, the clothes on them in the blink of an eye.

“Merlin?” Arthur sits up, tries to keep his voice level and his face a bit cross. “You don't want to talk about it? Just going to storm out?”

“What's the point, Arthur?” Merlin's voice is hollow and quiet, and Arthur doesn't know what to do because the last time Merlin had sounded like that, Arthur had almost died. He still had the scar in his side, thin pink lines tracing over the path of the sword through his abdomen. Merlin's eyes flick to it, and Arthur resists the urge to cover it. Merlin catches the twitch of his finger anyway. “What's the point in having this conversation over and over again?”

“Alright, how about we have a different one?” Arthur can feel his voice rise, but he's not angry. He's confused, he's a bit hurt, but he's not angry. His voice rises anyway. “A conversation about all this?”

He gestures to his eyes, and Merlin winces.

It's not of fear, it's of pain.

Arthur's not prepared for Merlin to march across the room. Merlin stops in front of him and turns around, pushing hair and a neckerchief away from the back of his neck to reveal a small, thick scar. “Morgana tortured me and tried to make me kill you. Gaius and Gwen stopped me, but not before cutting the Fomorrah she put in me out of my neck, several times.”

Arthur starts to respond, but Merlin speaks first, whirling on him. He pulls the shirt up from his side, showing a mangled scar. It was clearly from an arrow, the thin lines leading off in the crossed fashion of arrowheads. “Saved a sorceress from your knights, and she, in return saved me from Morgana and this. She died at her own hand, rather than give up my identity.”

“I--”

“I felt her death rip through me, the loss of magic and the kindness she had shown me like a physical blow as bad as the one that left this scar,” Merlin's eyes were hard, his voice thick. He leaned down and rolled the leg of his pants up. A scar twisted around his shin. “I don't know if you remember Daegal. I do. He didn't even have magic, but he saved me. And he did it while we were trying to save you.”

Arthur's face heated, his hands clenched in fists at his side. He hadn't known about these sacrifices, hadn't known about these scars. He doesn't see how he could have known. Merlin doesn't give him a chance to argue, as if he knows what Arthur will say.

“You could have saved them, before. Even now, they can't be honored or remembered. Even now, if someone asks me where I got these scars, I'll have to lie. Because magic is illegal, but it's served you. You say you'll be fine, but it's me who makes you fine. You say you'll be careful, but you've been so _careful_ your whole life that I've had to spend half of mine saving yours.” Merlin wipes his eyes and straightens his shoulders. “I can't keep patching you up and watching you go out to war and die without me, only for me to pull you back.”

“Merlin.” Arthur moves to stand, but Merlin steps away. “I've known. I've always known.”

“Then why didn't you change it?” Merlin stares, his eyes wide again, but this time not with fear. “Why don't you let me protect you where others can see, why don't you listen to me?”

Arthur gapes, no answers forthcoming. “You protect me, but others--”

“Are angry? Are hurt? Are scared?” Merlin steps away. “I have loved you so much, and for so long, and you've known, but you never…”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Arthur asks, his voice coming out all wrong. It's airy and quiet and near breathless. He knows what this is, can feel it in his bones, but he doesn't know what to say or do to stop it. “Why'd you keep it secret?”

“On pain of death.” Merlin shakes his head. “You could have changed that, at any time.”

“Merlin--”

“But that's not what tonight was about.” Merlin walks forward, hesitantly, and places his hand against Arthur's chest. There's only the slightest twinge of pain there now, where the arrow had gone straight through his shoulder. Arthur looks at the pale fingers pressing against the newly healed wound, at the soft-gold glow of magic there. “I wish you lived like you are. You're human, you're mortal, you're real. You're not made of legends, Arthur Pendragon.”

“I'm a King.”

“You're practically glass without me, Arthur.” Merlin leans forward, presses a kiss against Arthur's cheek. “I can't keep patching you up and fixing you in the dark of your bedchamber. I can't keep living in a shadow, loving you to make myself whole again.”

“You're leaving, then?” Arthur's mouth is dry. His clothes feel too heavy, his skin too hot.

“I am magic. Magic has no place in Camelot. I once said that, but I never believed it. I once thought that if I followed all the rules, made all the sacrifices, you'd make the right decision on your own.” Merlin's smile is sad again, his voice rough. “I once had faith in the legend of King Arthur. I almost had enough faith that loving you didn't hurt.”

Merlin looks at him one last time, crumpling where he stands, breathing fast. He gives Arthur enough time to respond, but Arthur's mind is locked up in shock, in hurt, in surprise. Merlin turns on his heel and leaves.

Even though Arthur watches him through the window, he doesn't see Merlin look back.

***

It takes four months for the cracks in Arthur's heart to win the battle.

He passes the law: magic is no longer banned in Camelot. The change is passed in Guinevere's court, under Morgana's name. They set the sealed document at her marker, a copy that is safe for as long as their grief remains.

Gwen unlocks the records, gives reparations to the families who suffered under the forty long years of Uther's law. One name isn't on the records, isn't found in the lists. Arthur doesn't know where to find him.

But there's mention of another man. One who Merlin loved. One who he'd cried for.

Balinor is listed, the last Dragonlord, whereabouts simply put as unknown. Underneath, there is another familiar name, and Arthur stomach sinks.

Last known location was in Ealdor, with a woman named Hunith.

And Arthur remembers the pain, for weeks after Balinor's death, that had been written across Merlin's features. He had told Merlin not to cry, and all along those tears had been for his father.

He wants to scream until he can't hear the echoes of his mistakes but he jumps on his horse instead.

He knows there's a cave.

And he knows that cave will hold a sorcerer. A Dragonlord.

Arthur makes it in a day and a half. A fire burns low, but the cave is empty, and Arthur wonders if Merlin had felt him coming.

Maybe Merlin wouldn't come, even without the bans on magic.

Maybe he'd decided he couldn't stand the sight of Arthur.

Maybe he was angry it had taken four months of grappling with all his demons for Arthur to change Camelot.

Arthur still contemplates these possibilities when he hears the thunk of something heavy.

He's halfway through the turn before he catches a bundle of black and dark blue, lips pressing against his in a hurried, sloppy kiss.

“You did it.”

“Of course I did.”

There's a lot to discuss, a lot to understand and re-establish. Arthur knows they're not okay, they may never truly be okay, but he kisses Merlin again, and tries to push it out of his mind.

Because they are finite, mortal, broken.

They are fragile, like glass.

But they are stronger together.

  


  



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